


A Very Dickens' Christmas

by athousandsmiles



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:55:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandsmiles/pseuds/athousandsmiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's savoring every second and mentally tossing all his fears into the flames. Because this... this is nice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My Secret Santa fic for pyewacket_1975, who wanted:
> 
> 1\. Romance between House and Cameron  
> 2\. sex under a christmas tree  
> 3\. Cuddling in front of a fire
> 
> And didn't want:
> 
> 1\. Any mention of Huddy  
> 2\. Characters being too OOC (A.k.a. too sappy)  
> 3\. Mentions of Chase
> 
> This is a sequel to "Dickens' First Christmas." It'll make more sense if you've read that first, as this picks up right where that one left off. Here's the link: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5603917/1/Dickens_First_Christmas
> 
> I hope I fulfilled Pyewacket_1975's wishes, though I confess it might be a bit too sappy. *innocent look*  
> Enjoy, and Merry Christmas to all. Happy holidays too.

As he breaks the kiss, Cameron looks up into his face and smiles, her hands gently gripping his arms as if to keep him from fleeing her apartment.  

 

"I don't know if I can do this," he says, glancing away from her searching gaze.

 

"What? Kiss me?" she teases. "I thought you were doing just fine."

 

"Ha," he says, and sighs with relief as the microwave timer goes off and she breaks her hold on him. He's torn between fleeing back to the safety of his apartment, his Vicodin, and his bourbon, or staying and trying that kissing thing again, because that was more than just fine. But then... this is Cameron and he doesn't know what she expects. Oh, he has his suspicions, and those involve scary things like long-term commitment and maybe a couple of miniature humans toddling around and calling him _daddy_. He shudders at the thought and steps back, watching as she finishes up the dinner preparations. 

 

She moves with quiet efficiency, and he waits for her to ask him about what that kiss meant. He's sure she'll be pushing him for answers any moment now.

 

"Sit down, let's eat," she says, gesturing toward the little table for two pushed against the wall of her kitchen.

 

"Let's eat out there," he says, nodding toward the living room, which seems less intimate, less date-like, and there's a television he intends to turn on if she gets too pushy with the questions. Without waiting for an answer, he leaves the kitchen and plops himself down in the middle of the couch.

 

"It's lasagna. My couch is white. Do you think you can eat without spilling anything?" She's standing there with two plates in her hand, looking down on him.

 

He scowls at that and says, "I'm not five."

 

"Sometimes I'm not so sure," she retorts, sitting down beside him and passing him a plate loaded with lasagna, garlic bread, and a small pile of salad. 

 

He thinks it's a good meal to eat if you want to avoid intimacy, but while garlic might help ward off vampires, he's not sure it's strong enough to ward off Cameron. He's also not entirely sure he wants it to, as he realizes his choice of spots on the couch made it impossible for her to sit anywhere but right next to him, her leg brushing up against his. So much for avoiding intimacy.

 

Silence descends and he's starting to feel awkward when her little fleabag starts mewling from somewhere in the vicinity of his feet. He feels the slightest of pin pricks through his jeans as the little beast claws its way up his leg, curling up in the concave dip of his damaged thigh. With one eyebrow raised, he watches as it gets comfortable. 

 

"Make yourself at home," he says with a little bite of sarcasm.

 

"I think he likes you," Cameron laughs, and he scowls at her again.

 

"I'll take him," she says, with a conciliatory smile, scooping the cat up and making a little bowl in the center of the throw pillow as a place for it to sleep. As it curls up, she strokes its head and ears and House can hear it purring. He's pretty sure he'd purr too if she stroked him like that.

 

Thoughts like that make him shovel down his food as if he's only got seconds to eat. It's really good food, he thinks. Would probably be better if he took a moment or two to actually taste it. 

 

"I've got to go," he says, plunking his plate down on the coffee table and hefting himself up off the couch. He's already at the door with his coat half on when she rises and meets him.

 

"Thanks for the ride," she says sweetly, grabbing the portion of his coat still hanging off him and helping him to shrug it on. So polite and courteous. God how he hates that. He really really does. Really. 

 

"See you tomorrow," she adds, and he's left stupefied as she holds the door open for him, her eyes all sparkly as they reflect the twinkle lights on her tree. Where are all the questions about what that kiss meant and what his intentions are? She really confuses him sometimes. 

 

The next day she's at work, carrying on as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened and he's even more confused. He briefly wonders how she got to work, given that she left her car in the parking lot the night before, but he doesn't ask. He watches her all day, wishing he could get inside her head and find out what the hell is going on. Wilson would tell him to just ask, but there's no way he's ever going to do that, even if she's driving him nuts. 

 

By the end of the day he breaks, watching her gather her stuff to leave. "Need a ride home?" he asks, surprising himself.

 

"No," she says, her eyes wide as she looks at him. "I found my keys this morning. But thanks for the offer."

 

"Sure," he says, swiveling back and forth in his desk chair and keeping tabs on her out of the corner of his eye. Just as she turns to leave again, he throws out, "So what's for dinner tonight?" and mentally kicks himself because he has no idea where that came from either. 

 

She stops in her tracks and pivots to face him, eyes even wider than before. "I... uh... I was just going to heat up some chicken I made. Pecan chicken," she clarifies. "You... want to come?"

 

"Sure. Sounds good," he answers, trying to swallow down the ball of nerves that has lodged itself in his throat. He can't even look at her. 

 

"Okay. Well... I'm leaving now. Just come by whenever you're ready."

 

"Will do," he replies, his voice sounding low and gruff to his own ears, and he watches her leave, gaze following her down the hall and out of sight. 

 

He sits there another hour, debating whether he'll actually go or not, and then finally launches himself out of his chair, gathers his things and heads out. He's still not sure what he's going to do. 

 

Another hour passes and he finds himself at her door, pressing the doorbell with a persistence he hopes will annoy her. He has no idea why. Okay, that's not true, he thinks. Annoying her is way less scary than trying to have a relationship with her. And that's what he's doing, isn't he? But she's opened the door before he can run. 

 

"Hey," she greets, ushering him in. "Good timing. I was just going to put the food in the oven; it's not as good reheated in the microwave. Shouldn't take long though."

 

As she talks, she takes his coat and hangs it in the closet. "Make yourself at home," she adds, pointing toward the living room. "You can put the TV on if you want."

 

He watches as she retreats to the kitchen and then he opens the closet and reaches for his coat, debates for a split second whether or not to leave and then pulls the two small packages out of the pocket, peering around the corner to make sure she doesn't see him. He moves to the living room and eases himself down to the floor beside her Christmas tree. 

 

Dickens shows up, mewling at him plaintively, and he rips open one of his gifts and tosses it to the cat, watching in amusement as the little fleabag attacks the catnip mouse, dragging it off into the other room.

 

The heat of the fire in the fireplace warms him as he places his other gift beneath the tree. Before he has a chance to move away, Cameron's there looking down at him.

 

"What are you doing down there?" she says with a little laugh.

 

"Wanted to warm myself by the fire," he lies.

 

"Oh. Well, just be careful. Dickens got at some of the ornaments today, so there was some broken glass on the carpet. I vacuumed, but there still might be a few slivers."

 

"I'm impenetrable," he jokes. 

 

"Sure you are," she laughs, and then her eyes catch sight of his gift.  "What's that?"

 

She kneels down and plucks it from beneath the tree, shaking it gently beside her ear as if she can distinguish what it is by the sound of the rattling inside the box.

 

"Open it," he tells her, and she plops down beside him on the floor and peels back the paper. A little gasp escapes her as she opens the velvet case inside, revealing its contents.

 

"House."  It's all she gets out, as if words have escaped her.

 

He pulls it from her shaky hands and takes the necklace out. The slender silver chain holds an intricate and delicate vine made of tiny and very rare stones. Each stone is a blue-green color that makes him think of her eyes. The vine makes him think of her place in his life, how she's slowly grown like ivy around the walls of his heart, crumbling the brick and mortar beneath. Of course, he tells her none of this. Nor will he tell her that he hand selected each gem and had the necklace designed especially for her, that he did this months ago, but never thought he'd actually be brave enough to give it to her.

 

"These stones are called Apatites," he says instead, as he drapes the chain over her neck and she moves her hair aside. "Or cat's eye. This particular color can only be found in Mada...gascar." He stumbles over his words for a minute as his knuckles brush against her skin and her hair falls over his hand, as soft as anything he's ever known.

 

She turns, her fingers holding the vine as she examines it. "It's beautiful," she murmurs. "Thank you."

 

And then she kisses him, and he's kissing her back, sliding his tongue in to touch hers. When she moans, he's undone, pulling her closer and slipping his hand beneath her shirt and up along her spine. Her hands are on his face, thumbs whispering across his lips, fingertips exploring his whiskered cheeks and jawline.  

 

At some point her shirt is removed and tossed aside. He's not sure if he took it off her or if she did, but he's reveling in the sight of her in her lacy blue bra and the feel of so much naked skin beneath his fingers. She pushes him back a moment, just enough to yank his shirt over his head and then he pulls her down on top of him, surprised and pleased when she immediately starts working at the button and zipper of his jeans. He never expected her to be so... aggressive, but then, she's always been good at finding ways to defy his expectations. 

 

"Wait," he says, as she pushes his jeans down his legs. He stuffs his hand into one of the pockets and pulls out a condom.

 

"Someone was confident," she teases in a breathy murmur.

 

"More like optimistic," he replies, and then moans as she begins rolling the condom on him, moving faster than he anticipated. The feel of her touching him so intimately is nearly enough to bring him to the edge. He rolls her so that he's on top; the twinge of pain in his leg helps him to concentrate, to prolong their activities. 

 

He latches on to her neck, tasting the skin where her pulse beats out a rapid rhythm, and a little thrill shoots through him as she gasps his name. His palm slides beneath her bra, and then he moves down to suck her nipple into his mouth and roll his tongue around it as she arches off the floor and yanks her bra completely off. Her breasts are small and high and perfect and he worships a moment at each one before kissing his way down to her navel and pushing her pants and panties toward her ankles. With that, she is naked except for the necklace, and she's the most breathtaking thing he's ever seen. 

 

She grabs at the carpet with one fist as he tastes her, his tongue delving in to find the one spot guaranteed to bring her pleasure. The incoherent sounds coming from her sweet lips are enough to let him know he's found his mark, and only seconds later she's coming, long and hard, grasping his head with one hand, her body taut and her mouth hanging open as she labors to breathe. 

 

He moves back up her body, pulling her to him so that they're laying side by side. She wraps one arm and one leg around him and he slips into her, moving slowly as her body accepts him. It's the most intimate position he's experienced with a woman in far longer than he cares to think about. She places quick little kisses on his eyelids, the bridge of his nose, his lips, as he reminds himself to slow his breathing before his heart marches right out of his chest. She overwhelms him, and he's thinking too much of what she means to him, of what a miracle she is in his life and before he can stop himself, a few tears leak out his tightly closed eyelids and he silently damns her for bringing out emotions in him he's kept buried for a very long time.

 

Tenderly she swipes at his tears with her thumbs, kisses the path they took down his cheeks, and then clutches him tighter as if she can't get him close enough. She begins moving her hips, starts slow and increases her pace bit by bit until she's undulating against him like waves against the shore, and before long he's there, crying out and coming hard inside her tight little body as she grips him, slick and hot. 

 

He rolls onto his back, pulling her with him. His breath comes in heaving gasps, and his skin chills wherever her body is not touching his. 

 

"I think I have carpet burns on my butt," she murmurs with a little laugh.

 

"Well, lucky for you I'm a doctor. I'd be happy to take a look," he says with a wink. And he's grateful she's ignoring his emotional outburst at the moment. 

 

She laughs and the sound warms him from the inside out. It's the sound of possibility, he thinks, and home.

 

An acrid scent rolls into the room just then and Cameron sits up with a jerk.

 

"Dammit, I forgot the chicken," she says, dragging on his button down as she rises and rushes to the kitchen.

 

Pulling his boxers and jeans back on, he follows her and watches as she dumps burned chicken into the sink. Her cheeks peek out from beneath his shirt as she stands on tiptoe to raise the window and air out the room, and he grins and thinks he could get used to the sight.

 

"Sorry about dinner," she says, sheepish as she glances at him from the corner of her eye. "I have some more in the fridge; it'll just take a few minutes to heat up."

 

"It can wait," he answers, grabbing her hand as frigid winter air hits his naked chest. He pulls her back into the living room and drags her chair closer to the fire. Settling in, he invites her to join him, while she stands there looking gobsmacked.

 

"C'mon, it's cold in here," he invites, tugging her down to sit on his lap. "I'm not Santa, but I might be able to make a Christmas wish or two come true."

 

"You already have," she admits, looking deep into his eyes with a million burning questions and something he thinks looks a lot like love.

 

"So you wanted a mind-blowing orgasm then?"

 

"Among other things," she teases, with a little laugh. "How about you?"

 

"I definitely wanted a mind-blowing orgasm. Could go for a few more of those, in fact." It's the only way he knows to tell her he wants to try this relationship thing. He's confident she'll know what he really means, because she's always been better at reading him than he'd admit to anyone.

 

"I think that can be arranged," she says, snuggling down into him, and he stretches his feet out toward the fire and cuddles her close, savoring every second and mentally tossing all his fears into the flames. Because this... this is nice.


	2. The Little Dickens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a back up story for the Secret Santa ficathon on LJ, written for Pyewacket75, because under my watch everyone gets a story. Somehow I always end up coming back to this little series. This one picks up right where the last chapter left off.
> 
> Pyewacket75's wish list:
> 
> Things I want in my story:
> 
> 1\. House and Cameron snuggling in front of a crackling fire
> 
> 2\. Champagne
> 
> 3\. A walk(or drive) around the neighborhood looking at Christmas lights.
> 
> Things I do NOT want:
> 
> 1\. Any references to House's team as "ducklings"
> 
> 2\. Cuddy trying to interfere in House/Cameron's happiness
> 
> 3\. Wilson being girly

They must have dozed off, Cameron warm against him in the arm chair and the fire dying down until there's nothing but glowing embers. His stomach rumbles and Cameron stirs, setting off pinprick tingles in his good leg where it's gone numb under her weight.

"I guess we fell asleep," she says on a yawn, swiveling to plant her feet on the floor and rise. "I'll put the chicken in the oven."

"Wait," he murmurs, still caught up in a maelstrom of emotion as he pulls her back down and cuddles her against his chest, her hair tickling his chin. "Not yet."

"Your leg must be asleep by now," she says, snuggling into him again.

"Don't care," he says. 'I need you,' is what he doesn't say.

She sighs with a contentment that surprises him. Not that he doesn't think her capable of that kind of contentment, but rather, what surprises him is that he could so easily induce it.

"This is nice," she says, taking one of his hands in hers and fitting her fingers between his. She studies them carefully, as if mentally cataloging the way their hands look, fingers entwined as they are. The look on her face is one of wonder, as if she can't believe that these two hands are really hers and his. It makes him realize what an ass he's been to her, and to himself really, for putting her off for so long.

Laying her head in the crook of his neck again, her breath falls warm against him, raising goosebumps on his skin. His scalp tingles from the sheer joy of this simple moment, the woman he loves in his arms, the quiet intimacy, the peace.

And then her stomach rumbles too, signaling that dinner is long overdue. He feels as if he could stay this way forever, but he supposes that is physically impossible, so he releases the hold his arms have on her, but not the one in his heart.

"Tell you what," he says, "you go throw the food in, and I'll get the fire going again."

"Okay," she replies, pressing a kiss to his neck before she rises, and he can't help but stare after her with what is likely that same wonder on his face that she had only moments before.

He stands and stretches, working out the kinks in both his damaged thigh and his good one, pops a couple of Vicodin and sets to work rebuilding the fire until he's got a cheery blaze going that warms his chilled bones, now bereft of her warmth.

Moments later, she comes back with two plates and sets them down, only to return to the kitchen again. She emerges seconds later with a bottle of champagne and two champagne flutes.

"Been saving this for a special occasion," she says, with a little shrug and an expression of vulnerability, as if she's suddenly uncertain of her place with him.

"Perfect," he says, smiling with as much reassurance as he can muster. He plucks the bottle from her and pops the cork, watching it land across the room near Dickens', who immediately bats at it like it's a new toy.

She holds the flutes as he pours, laughing as some of the foam bubbles over onto the carpet. Dickens is there immediately, lapping at the wet spot with his little pink tongue.

"He'll be drunk in about thirty seconds," House says with a comical quirk of his lips, and Cameron just laughs and clinks her glass against his own, saying, "Merry Christmas, House."

All he can do is nod. The preponderance of Christmas lights in the room is making his eyes watery. Or maybe it's the heat from the fire.

Once they've eaten and consumed nearly all of the champagne, he pulls her into his lap again, watching as the cat gobbles up the remains of their meal from the plates they've set aside.

"The little Dickens is eating like royalty tonight," he notes, his voice a low rumble of humor.

Cameron murmurs a little "mmm," in reply and begins kissing his neck again, and just like that, he's forgotten all about the kitten, and just about everything else including his own name.

mdmdmdmdmdmd

The next day at work, Wilson accuses him of  _glowing_ , to which he just offers up a half-hearted scowl. He tries his best to be his normal grumpy self all day, but every time he sees Cameron or gets a whiff of that soft, feminine fragrance that is unique to her, he's lost in memories of her body and all her satiny smooth skin and the little sounds of pleasure she makes when he touches her just right. He recalls how she fits against him, how it feels to hold her, the contentment of just sitting quietly with her, and he can't maintain any facade of irritability.

He probably  _is_  glowing. Damn Wilson.

"You busy tonight?" he asks her quietly, as they're wrapping up the day. She's sitting at the desk in the conference room, lit only by the lamp and the light from her laptop. Her hair is coming loose from her ponytail; he hopes she'll take it down altogether, because he loves the way it falls over her shoulders, and the way it feels sifting through his fingers.

"No," she answers with a smile. "You want to come over for dinner again?"

"Thought we'd go out," he says. "Something casual, if that's all right with you."

"I'd like that," she replies, tucking files away and shutting down her computer.

He takes her to a little Thai restaurant tucked into a corner of a strip mall. It's not much to look at, but the food is delicious and the service is excellent. The company is beyond compare. He especially likes how easy it is to make her laugh.

When their meal is done, he drives right past her apartment building. He can feel her questioning gaze as she studies him, and he waits for the question.

"Where are we going?"

And there it is, right on time. "You'll see," he says, smiling at her.

Moments later, he turns down Fairview Avenue, and right into a Christmas wonderland of lights. Every house on the block is lit up, some so bright they rival the Griswold's. Cameron's smile lights up just as bright as she glances from one house to another.

"I know how much you like all this Christmas cheer," he tells her, carefully skirting the pedestrians who've come out to see the displays.

"It's beautiful," she murmurs, with the kind of reverent awe one would normally reserve for something sacred. "Thank you."

He takes his time, coasting along the street until they reach the end and then turning around and going back the way they came, so she can see the houses along the other side.

When they reach her apartment building again, he parks and waits and she asks, "Are you... coming up?"

"Yup," he answers with a little grin. "Just making sure I was invited."

"You're always invited," she replies, and he kisses her right there and then, because it's Christmas, and because he can. He's a stray she's rescued and taken in, just like that little furball, Dickens, that started it all. He's got a sudden fondness for cats. Maybe he'll even let the little fleabag nap on his leg.

It is Christmas after all.

 


End file.
